The
story of life begins somewhere, at some particular point
we happen to remember. When we think of the earth continually
shifting, moving and reconfiguring as new land rises and
falls; oceans become mountains; rivers and lakes dry up;
islands flourish and cease to exist: it must be true that
life is invisible, hidden in the crystalline stone that
is the bedrock of our existence. It’s the inner experiences
that resonate with the natural changes in the substrata
of existence -- experiences that carve out and engrave themselves
upon the inner landscape, simultaneously, shaped and formed
out of the fiery magma that worked upon the stone until
it crystallized.

As if happenstance, once in a while, one of these crystalline
veins protrudes towards the surface of the earth. As if,
like an ocean wave, some feeling of euphoria has surged
towards the wide-open sky creating a sea change that expresses
itself as one’s exterior life. Once deeply buried
in the eons of time, on the surface this outcrop, as it’s
called, enters another time. Visible, and so calculable
and measurable.

And soon with human contact a mimesis occurs. One day an
ancient ancestor out hunting takes shelter underneath the
outcrop. That night, he dreams of a great fiery bull. Upon
awakening, so taken with the power of his dream, immediately
perceives within the contours of the fiery crystals ions,
something ineffable, illuminating the image of the beast.
He screams in awe. And so, art is born in that cry. Or,
is it religion that is born? For now the ancient ancestor
is bound by his imagination to call this place sacred and
eternal, Becauese some supernatural power has intruded to
transfigure this commonplace outcrop into an altar for the
ritual of placating those divine powers that control human
destiny.

A sudden flash of a camera flashbulb disturbs my silence.
No, not so much disturbs as it cracks open my silence, sending
me across time between past and present. The flash engraves
its imprint upon my retina. A brilliant purple aura surrounds
the object of my vision – a small outcrop in the Welsh
mountainside. I reflect as I stare at the faded and blue
photograph in my hand; is the colour blue because in midlife,
I am touching into the lament of my soul? It is 45 years
since I stood on that outcrop. Here I am at 14, my innocence
still untainted, standing triumphantly upon an outcrop in
the Welsh mountains, the birthplace of my ancestors. I am,
newly awakening to life.

But
the photo is also a visual joke –

continued
from left column...

an
exercise in slapstick, tripping the eye into believing
this mere outcrop is a mountaintop. You see, I am posing
for someone else, for someone else’s image of my
identity. Upon the outcrop, I appear to have stature and
worth through the accomplishment of successfully climbing
to a great height that the mountain represents. Some conceit
in me wants to believe this fable that I am performing
to the gods of fame and time as some caricature of success.
“Such an inflation” I say as I look into my
14-year-old eyes, and “such spirit in the girl!”
A girl, who as a woman, makes bright and splendid the
objects of first-hand experience in clay, paint and poetry.
Here at 14, standing at the place where her faith, dreams
and hopes in the journey of life lay before her at her
feet.

But what of her heart and the invisible life that beat
within her? It’s one thing to take the humiliation
of a practical joke. For just at the moment as the camera’s
shutter clicked, a double decker bus appeared and passed
by on the wet pavement. The young woman on the outcrop
was now reduced and diminished – a mere child. What
was given was suddenly taken away by that cruel teacher
– the Trickster, our father, for whom life is a
harsh teacher and taskmaster. Tricking was meant as a
valuable lesson in life.

Yet as I looked at the girl on the outcrop, I saw a searching
look in her eyes and an open chest. Clearly the necessary
pain of adult life did not yet harden her heart for her
heart was beating in the search for love.

Because love transforms, this outcrop is now a metaphor.
A metaphor for what is possible and the possibility that
anything can emerge from the inner life. No one, least
of all me would have guessed at the questions going through
her mind as she stood windswept and raw, her face stinging
with the light needling rain. I certainly did not appreciate
the depth of sadness in her heart until now. So I released
her from the photo that captured her 45 years ago by asking
a question: ‘what is your photo of yourself on that
day you climbed the outcrop?’

A motion begins. Turning very slowly in a circle I see
a shape emerging of other stones, many stones standing
as a circle, a circle of stones. I hear the soft sounds
of a drum beating a steady rhythm, softly yet insistently.
My eyes are tearing and I don’t know why I’m
crying. Are these tears from a soul lamenting? In the
silence of the gentle rain, softly beneath her breath
with her heart open, the girl has asked a question: “where
do I belong?” And answering is a distant cry echoing
across the hills and valleys. The call of an ancient ancestor
resonating across time.